Metal Gear Solid: Dragonfall
by MrStagg
Summary: 1974. A remote island in the South China Sea. A team of four MSF soldiers are sent by Big Boss to infiltrate the island, neutralise the rogue Chinese army faction occupying it and to investigate intelligence relating to a new kind of super-weapon. Featuring my own original characters, this story centres on stealth, dialogue and plot. Involves some bad language and violence. Enjoy!
1. Prologue: An Unexpected Guest

**DISCLAIMER**

**Hi all! Here is the prologue to my new story. I have been building on the feedback for Philanthropy and have tried to incorporate it into this new story - it will use my own original characters integrated into the MGS universe, as well as have more dialogue, interaction, suspense and sneaking. Here goes! As always any feedback in any way, be it support or criticism, is highly welcome.**

**MrStagg**

"This is your final warning! State your intentions or turn around! Your helicopter will be fired upon!" Kazuhira Miller roared into the radio microphone, his blond hair catching the afternoon Caribbean sun through the control tower window.

The radio crackled.

_"I'm here to see... John."_ A confident male voice replied over the static.

Big Boss' hand froze over the button to scramble the attack helicopters _Militaires Sans Frontières _kept on their helipads that would fly out to shoot down whatever entered the offshore base's airspace.

"What?" Big Boss rasped slowly, the seriousness in his voice only slightly masked by an unnerving surprised tone as he turned to face the radio set, deep in thought.

"What's he talking about Boss?" Asked Miller quietly, his confused eyes hidden by the heavily tinted aviators he made a habit of wearing.

"Let him in. Helipad four." Big Boss growled, hiding any emotions he was feeling. He turned and walked out of the small control tower and down the stairs to the makeshift airstrip and runway MSF had constructed on their quickly expanding oil rig. As he stepped outside of the control tower, Big Boss pulled out a cigar – Cuban, his favourite – and lit it, smoking slowly and letting the fresh Caribbean breeze calm him down. He motioned to the sentries who guarded the control building, two men armed with M16s and dressed in MSF uniforms, to follow him out onto the helipads. The two men immediately jogged over to him and the three walked out to helipad four, as the distant sound of helicopter rotors could be heard over the afternoon breeze.

Within a few minutes, the UH-1 Huey was descending slowly onto the helipad, and as its rails touched the concrete the door on the side slid open. Out stepped a man, dressed in a black suit and tie, with fair hair and blue eyes, carrying a briefcase. As he walked towards Big Boss he smiled, the kind of smile an old friend gives someone after a long time apart.

"It's good to see you, Snake." He said, his eyes conveying something deeper than his relatively cheerful tone suggested. Looking around the airstrip he saw the large MSF logo painted onto the wall of the control tower. Smiling slightly, he pointed to it.

"This your new unit?" He asked.

"Yeah." Big Boss replied shortly, his apprehensive tone causing the man to turn sharply to him.

"Well then, is there somewhere we can talk privately? I have some... business to discuss with you." The man replied slowly, his blue eyes suddenly cold and fixed on Big Boss' grey ones.

Big Boss did not reply, instead continuing to stare. After a few seconds, he took a long drag on his cigar before turning away, throwing it on the floor and walking across the airstrip, motioning for the sentries to return to their positions. They nodded and walked back to where they were posted.

Big Boss set a brisk pace, the younger man hurrying to keep up with him. After several minutes of walking across the MSF base, past barracks, training facilities and vehicle garages, they arrived on the central plant of Mother Base, a colossal hub the centrepiece of which was a massive command tower, with floors dedicated to mission control, communications and satellite observation. It also contained the personal office of Big Boss, located on the top floor.

Big Boss and the man stepped out of the high-speed elevator into the comfortably furnished quarters, walking into the main meeting room, featuring a simple desk, chairs and a wall covered in maps, photographs and reports. On the other wall was a blank canvas, to be used with the film projector placed across the room. The late afternoon sunshine was lighting the office well, through the large windows at the end of the room.

As the door shut behind them, Big Boss suddenly pulled out his handgun, an M1911, from his leg holster, turning to face –

– A revolver, aimed right between his eyes, as was his handgun aimed at the other man's head. The other man thumbed back the hammer, the Colt Single Action Army barely moving as it clicked into place.

"Why are you here, Ocelot?" Big Boss asked bluntly, his eyes cold and angry.

"I'm here because I, and the rest of the free world, need your organisation's help, Snake." Ocelot said carefully, his own gun still levelled at Big Boss' head.

"Did _he_ send you?" Big Boss said. Both Ocelot and he knew who Big Boss was referring to. The mere mention of that man caused his face to spring up into his mind, the face of Zero. Big Boss no longer supported his organisation or its principles, and had come to blows with Zero a few years previously over his loss of belief in it. No-one except himself, Zero and few other select individuals knew the real reason why he left, and Big Boss could no longer stomach being around the others, hence how he ended up wandering the world for almost two years before forming MSF.

"No. Nor did any of his organisation," replied Ocelot calmly, knowing that would ease Snake's mind. "This job I have for MSF comes from Langley, en route from Whitehall."

"Whitehall?" Big Boss asked, surprised. "Why would the British need my help?"

"There is a problem, Snake. A problem your outfit should be able to fix. If you lower your gun, we can talk more, otherwise you can let me leave, and this whole thing never happened." Ocelot replied, slowly pointing his revolver downward. Big Boss lowered his gun too, and both men holstered them, Big Boss by his thigh, Ocelot in a holster hidden under his jacket.

"Sit down." Big Boss pointed to the nearest chair.

"Thank you. Now, down to business." Ocelot placed his briefcase on the table, side up and slid it over to Big Boss, who opened it. Inside was a file that read _CONFIDENTIAL _in red letters on the cover. Big Boss opened it up, pulling out yet another cigar and lighting it, beginning to read while Ocelot waited patiently.

**An hour later...**

As the evening sun was dipping towards the horizon, blazing the now smoky office with red and orange, Big Boss put the file down. He looked over to Ocelot, who had barely moved since he had begun reading, and cleared his throat.

"This sounds genuine. What about payment?" Big Boss asked.

"Open the secret compartment in the case." Ocelot replied with his usual confidence.

Big Boss' fingers found a small tab inside the case and pulled. The back layer of the inside peeled away revealing stacks of dollar bills, neatly piled in rows.

"Four hundred thousand dollars," Ocelot said, answering Big Boss' question before he could ask it. "You get this now, and a further six hundred on completion of the job. All untraceable and freshly-printed, courtesy of the British Crown through Langley." Big Boss nodded, grunting his assent.

"We'll take it," He said, closing the briefcase. "But we do this on our own terms. We do our job, alone and without interference." Big Boss said, staring at Ocelot, his eyes boring into him and making the younger man uncomfortable.

"All right, I accept the terms." Ocelot said.

"Good. An escort will take you beack to your helicopter; it's been fuelled and will be ready to leave when you get there." Big Boss said motioning to the door as he and Ocelot stood up.

"Very well." Ocelot said with slight distaste, a young arrogance finding its way into his response. He and Big Boss shook hands, the older man still strong in his grip.

As Ocelot walked towards the door, Big Boss called out.

"Adam."

"What is it?" Ocelot asked, pausing in the doorframe.

"Don't ever come here again." The menace in Big Boss' tone was unmistakeable. Ocelot turned and walked out.

Big Boss took a very long drag of his almost-finished cigar, the smoke only adding to the haze that occupied the ceiling. Turning towards an intercom on the wall, Snake pressed it and growled "Miller" into the receiver.

_"What is it Boss?" _ Miller's voice crackled over the radio.

"Assemble a team, four people – Infiltration and combat experts, our best. Briefing is at dawn." Said Big Boss, shutting down the intercom and walking over to the file that still lay on the desk. He picked it up and started reading again; he did not put it down until late into the night, the moonlight making the metal structures of the rig glitter like the stars above.


	2. Prologue II: Introducing George Hawke

**DISCLAIMER**

**Here's Chapter 2, sorry for the wait. I am working on this story a lot now the exams are finished, so hopefully more updates should come swiftly.**

**MrStagg**

The bullet punched through the wooden target's head, splinters flying out in all directions from its shattered remains.

_Headshot._

As George Hawke lowered his MAC-10 submachine gun, smoke rising from the silencer attached to the barrel, the finishing klaxon sounded, marking the end of the training simulation. Mother Base had many training facilities on site, but the "Killhouse" or CQB (Close Quarters Battle) simulation was a staff favourite, particularly in the combat teams. A mixture of door breaching, chokepoints, corridors, CQC tests and on top of all that a timer running throughout encouraged fierce competitiveness inside MSF, as to whom could set the best scores. Hawke paused whilst turning to the exit corridor as Miller's voice came on over the loudspeakers in the room, instead of the support operative that was, manning the station about a minute ago.

_Miller's here? Why?_

_"A new personal best, Hawke, I'm impressed! Now report to the barracks, I have to discuss something with you."_ Miller said, but still Hawke could not discern any clues as the nature of his upcoming discussion. Walking out into the metal-panelled corridors of the MSF rigs, he made his way to the barracks block, where the majority of the staff lived while on site. Although it could get a little crowded, to Hawke that camp bed with his name on it was home. Hell, the whole damn base was his home now, ever since his part in Vietnam.

Signing on as a Green Beret in the late 1960s, Hawke fought the Vietnamese during the infamous Tet Offensive of 1968, helping assault the city of Hue in February of that year. As well as the fierce fighting in the city itself against the fanatical Vietcong and North Vietnamese Army, Hawke saw something in Hue that damaged his confidence in the credibility of nations, and made him lose sight of his reason to fight. The US Army found more than 20 mass graves in Hue that month, with an estimated death toll of at least 3,000 people. Massacred in cold blood by the Communists' supporters and VC/NVA soldiers, Hawke's discovery of one of these graves shook him to the core. After that, Hawke was arrested for desertion. However on return to the US Hawke's initial charges were increased to treason and defection to the Chinese, while the papers fed the public a false story of war crimes and betrayal. After the conviction, Hawke disappeared. No-one out in the real world knew what happened between 1970 and 1973. No-one but him, and _them,_ knew the truth.

Hawke shook his head quickly, dispelling these unwanted, painful memories and snapping his attention back to the bustling barracks block.

_I've got to find Miller. He'll probably be in the main hall._

Hawke quickly took off the combat armour he was wearing, stripping down to his normal fatigues, a drab green with the MSF logo, a skull patterned to look like nations and borders emblazoned on the back of the jacket in black. Hawke walked passed by tens of occupied bunks, the men lying on them sleeping lazily, as would anyone close to 1:00 in the morning. He walked on through metal double doors and into the barracks' recreation area and canteen. There were always staff members in the hall, ranging from the mess hall team manning the kitchens and distributing food, to the research team with their lab coats and conversations about bullet trajectories and lasers, to the quiet recon specialists, who either operated MSF's satellite and airborne surveillance or scouted the field personally before missions were carried out. The bulk of the people in the room however were the standard MSF troops, including weapon specialists, stealth operatives, snipers, demolition men, vehicle commanders, gunners and pilots.

Despite its relatively small size, MSF had developed its own formidable army who – uniquely – fought because they _wanted_ to fight: this trait alone was a massive contributor to MSF's successes, let alone the efforts of the R&D unit, headed by Huey Emmerich, as well as the reconnaissance and medical teams, making MSF run like a well-oiled machine. Furthermore, the investment of MSF's funds into technological development allowed soldiers to be better equipped on the battlefield; the organisation pioneered its own weaponry and experimental tech.

Looking across the room, he saw Miller talking to a pilot, the man's trademark aviators catching the light from the bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Miller turned and motioned for Hawke to come over to him, while the pilot turned and walked into a throng of off-duty soldiers gambling raucously a few tables away. Despite the general din of the room's occupants, punctuated by a fresh roar of cheering from the gambling soldiers and their spectators, Hawke heard Miller when he spoke.

"Follow me, Hawke." Miller said before sharply walking off to one of the exits, and out into the main base. Over the next few minutes, any attempt from Hawke to press conversation with Miller led nowhere, obviously whatever he had to tell him was important, yet it still put Hawke on edge.

Hawke kept up with Miller's brisk pace, and before long, after going through many nondescript prefabricated corridors and walkways found their way to the foot of the main tower, the increasing ocean winds hitting Hawke in the face as he turned to see storm clouds in the night sky. Walking quickly after Miller, who hadn't paused since they had emerged onto the top of the main rig, Hawke got through the HQ's double doors just as they began to close and entered the main elevator with Miller.

They stood quietly in the small lift for about a minute, and then emerged into what could only be Big Boss' office. Hawke followed Miller as they walked into a meeting room, where a man stood facing out of the windows, staring into the night sky.

_Why does the Boss want to see me?_

"Sit down, Hawke." Big Boss growled without even turning round. Hawke pulled out one of the chairs from the large table and sat down, glancing at Miller, who nodded to him in an almost reassuring manner.

Turning around, Big Boss walked over to the table before sitting down himself, planting a file in from of Hawke.

"I've got a job for you. I need you to recruit three specialists, of your own choice. Infiltration and reconnaissance is the primary objective of your mission." Big Boss said, his eye never leaving Hawke's. "You will need to be discreet, efficient, and careful. This isn't a training op."

Hawke nodded, but paused before getting out of his seat. Looking down at the file in his hand, he saw the circular lion and unicorn symbol for the British military secret service, MI6.

_British intelligence? What exactly am I looking at here?_

"What are the details?" He asked slowly. Big Boss looked at him questioningly, a hint of amusement, among other things, glittered for a moment in his one remaining eye.

"Alright, Hawke. Let me fill you in." Big Boss looked for a moment at Miller, who turned and shut the door before standing against the wall. Big Boss stood up and walked back over to the windows, looking back out over the moonlit base and the ocean beyond. Big Boss pulled out a cigar, and lit it quickly, the smoke rising to the ceiling.

Taking a long drag on the cigar, Big Boss spoke.

"Three weeks ago, there was an armed robbery in Hong Kong..."


	3. Prologue III: Three Weeks Ago

**DISCLAIMER**

**Hello again! I have had trouble deciding on what direction I wanted this to take, and what context to set my mission around, in detail. I have thankfully overcome this block and am back on schedule, expect another update soon! I tried to expand the tension here, with a short action sequence. Hopefully this hasn't detracted from the quality of the narrative.**

**MrStagg**

The security officer stood in the darkened corridor, his black body armour barely illuminated by the light of his cigarette. Behind him there stood a large metal door to a secure room that MI6 agents in Hong Kong were using as a neutral meeting point between agencies. The sound of the nearby motorway heading South to Aberdeen was mostly drowned out inside the building. The man looked over his G3 assault rifle, checking the ammunition and safety before relaxing again. Turning a moment, he paused to look through the wall-eye on the door that viewed the interior of the room.

Inside the room three nondescript men in black suits waited, a metal suitcase on the table in front of them.

The guard's radio crackled.

_"All teams, all teams, the exchange is a go. Repeat, the exchange is a go. CIA people are on site and will be making the deal in less than a minute."_

The guard, taking his hand off the radio receiver, glanced once more up and down the corridor. This corridor marked the roadside walls of the building. No-one else should be here but him.

Smiling knowingly at the absence of other guards or staff, the officer opened a knapsack that was leant against the wall on the floor next to him, and took out several packages, explosives, wrapped in black tape. Arming them, he stuck them on the wall opposite the secure door, and on the sides of the doorframe. He then checked the machinery, nodding to himself at the green light on each bomb. Taking the detonator out of his pocket, he walked to a safe distance from the bombs, crouched and checked his watch.

_Thirty seconds._

On the main road, the armoured van's driver pressed the pedal harder, the large engine rumbling more loudly as the van sped up. In the back, four men in full combat gear, masks and goggles were checking weapons and holding on to the metal handles bolted to the interior walls and ceiling.

One looked at the man next to him, touched his radio and began to speak in rapid Chinese.

[How long?]

[Twenty seconds.]

The second man turned to the other two, who so far had remained silent, and touched his radio again.

[The explosives will have been armed. When we are close, they detonate and we drive through to the secure room. Come out shooting and grab the case.]

There was a chorus of assent from the other three.

[That case is priceless. Protect it with your lives. We must take it to the docks in Aberdeen.]

The men then braced, holding on to the handles tightly and adopting a strong stance with their feet.

_Ten._

The MI6 liaison was talking quickly with his American contact who had arrived less than a minute ago to collect the case. He slid it across the table to the other man, who grasped it tightly, a hint of greed flashing for a moment in his green eyes.

_Nine._

The two security guards at the building's main entrance paused a moment and began talking about going to a bar to spend their pay from this mission.

_Eight._

The traitor guard's watch ticked closer to the minute mark.

_Seven._

The van overtook a taxi, the driver inside turning angrily and gesturing as the truck roared ahead, moisture from the wet road surface spraying behind it.

_Six._

The American closed the case, putting its contents back inside and nodding to the other man before moving stand from his chair.

_Five._

The Chinese soldiers all braced against the handles in the truck, leaning and adopting stable stances with their feet.

_Four._

The traitor thumbed the detonator button.

_Three._

The truck veered away from the road, the drivers nearby honking their horns angrily and stopping quickly. The truck aligned with a seemingly inconspicuous building ahead, its breezeblock wall beginning to be illuminated by the beam of the van's lights.

_Two._

The American reached the leaving door, but the other man called out to him a moment, and he turned to answer.

_One._

The van slowed slightly, a nearby pedestrian stopped and gazed, stupefied, as it continued at speed towards the wall.

_ZERO._

The traitor guard pressed the button on the detonator. All at once, the outer wall of the building exploded, bricks flying outwards as the van tore towards the entry point. The other explosives detonated, and as the American opened his mouth to answer the British man, they were thrown sideways as one wall of the room exploded inwards, dust and bricks smashing against the opposite walls. Several of the suit-wearing agents standing in the corners were killed instantly in the explosion even as the armoured van tore into the room, crashing into and buckling the other wall. Inside the van, the four men swayed and tightened their holds on the handles, the sudden stop of the van almost throwing them down.

The traitor got up, his ears ringing and the corridor plagued with smoke as the building's fire alarms rang, and sprinted out into the night, collecting an envelope hidden in a bin a few buildings down the street. Not one of the many pedestrians standing further down the road noticed the thousands of dollars he pocketed as they stared in shock and awe at the gaping hole in the building, smoke pouring from it into the night air.

As the American rolled on the floor, still clutching the case, he saw blurrily the doors of the van open, and several pairs of combat boots land in the rubble.

The Chinese men opened fire into the room, pumping the nearby bodies full of bullets from controlled bursts of gunfire. The two security guards from the front were killed almost immediately as they tried to enter, the nearest soldier opening fire on them as they turned a corner nearby.

The CIA man resisted feebly as one soldier grabbed the case and roared in Chinese into his radio, before jumping back into the truck. The others swiftly followed suit. However, as the other three got into the van, the last man turned again to the battered, dazed agent lying on the floor, their suit covered in blood and dust. Pulling out a pistol, he shot the man through the head before clambering into the van and helping the others shut the doors.

Reversing quickly, the van pulled out onto the road, pedestrians beginning to panic in the nearby streets, dust and rubble pouring off of the top onto the pavement as it sped back onto the motorway, its tires squealing. When it had roared down the motorway for another half mile, it slowed and drove inconspicuously down the main tunnel road to the Aberdeen district of Hong Kong. Even as sirens could be heard in the distance, the van arrived at a pier in the dockyards, the four men and the driver leaving the vehicle with the case and running over to a military boat moored there. Before long, the boat was underway at full speed, roaring off into the horizon.

**At MSF, present day...**

Big Boss turned back to Hawke, walking over and sitting down.

"That's why we were contacted: to return that case. I will fill you in more at the briefing, but for now I need to you to pick three team members of your own, any specialisation. You choose the team but you've got to be able to count on them. You have..." Big Boss checked the clock mounted on the corner, "...5 hours until dawn. Understood?"

"Yes Boss." Hawke replied quickly.

"Leave the file and return at dawn, Hawke." Miller said, as Hawke left the room and entered the elevator. Turning back to Big Boss, he spoke. "Do you think he's up to it?" He asked.

"Yeah." Big Boss growled before taking a long drag on his cigar.

Hawke emerged onto the rig, the wind picking up considerably as the storm got closer. He sighed to himself.

_Three people? This is going to be a long night._


	4. The Team

**DISCLAIMER**

**Hi again. Whenever I seem to make promises on deadlines here I never meet them. I apologise sincerely for keeping everyone waiting but alas real life interfered at every opportunity the past fortnight. I am now on holiday for the week, so I hope this will be enough until my return. However, I have managed to (finally) put together my characters, and I hope they are good enough not to be as awful as I found inventing them to be!**

**MrStagg**

After a short walk across the base, Hawke entered the staff administration office in the barracks, looking to check the databases to assemble his team. Hawke's own speciality was infiltration, espionage and recon, so he needed to balance out his teammates' skills.

_I'll need a heavy weapons expert._

Scrolling through the computer database, looking at countless black and white photos of staff members, he came across a likely candidate – a Russian by the name of Nikita Bazarov, not currently deployed and listed as a weapons and explosives specialist.

"Perfect," muttered Hawke, looking at the photograph on screen once more before walking out into the barracks area to look for him.

Although MSF took people from around the world, its spoken language was normally English – however soldiers from certain nationalities were often found with others of similar origins, and despite the best efforts of Miller and other staff members, friction between these groups was inevitable. An excellent example would be those Russians gathered during the San Hieronymo Takeover in 1970, and ex-freedom fighters hailing from the Eastern Bloc and other countries under Soviet control. Even though many were no longer allied to their original country's ideals, rivalry between groups whom were previously opposed was not uncommon, and disagreements regular.

As he walked through one of the barracks' sleeping areas, Hawke heard a commotion coming from the main room. He returned to find that one of the men he saw gambling earlier was yelling at another, who was equally angry. The previously jovial crowd had taken a step back, and was instead keeping quiet as the two men bellowed at each other. One, a hulking man with a deep scar running diagonally across his face, stepped menacingly towards the other, a smaller yet no less fit man with a goatee.

Hawke got close enough to hear what the men were yelling about.

"Show me the cards, Kirill!" The large man shouted in heavily accented English, taking another step forward.

"No! The roll was fair. You lost, _Nikita_. Pay up!" The other man yelled back in equally accented English.

_That guy is Bazarov? Oh, boy._

Hawke moved quickly into the crowd, moving to the front as the two men began to circle each other. Hawke could see the Spetsnaz (Russian Special Forces) insignia tattooed onto Bazarov's neck.

"Cheating Chechen scum!" Bazarov roared as he charged at the other man.

Knowing that he had only a few seconds until a full-fledged fight broke out, Hawke lunged out of the crowd and ran into the path of Bazarov, before grabbing his outstretched arm, smacking the flat of his free hand into Bazarov's ribs and quickly flipping him over his foot, the giant man landing with a loud crash on the floor of the room.

For a moment, everyone stood in shocked silence at Hawke's intervention and the sudden display of CQC.

Hawke glared around at everyone else in the room, before settling on the other man who was standing, stunned, at his sudden change in fortune.

"Give the man back his money." Hawke said calmly. Reluctantly the man with the goatee handed Hawke about fifty dollars before quickly making an exit, and after a few seconds the crowd broke up into smaller groups, leaving Hawke and the unconscious Bazarov alone.

Kneeling down, Hawke gave Bazarov a light tap on the cheek, and immediately the man's eyes opened, looking around wildly for a moment, before settling threateningly on Hawke. Noticing the man was about to attack him, Hawke held up the money, and Bazarov snatched it out of his hand.

"Nikita Bazarov?" Hawke asked as the man nodded, "I have a job for you." He stood and offered Bazarov his hand.

Taking it, Bazarov pulled himself to his feet, muttering a few choice swear words in Russian before patting his fatigues down. Now that they were out of the fight, Hawke could take a look at Bazarov, the scar disfiguring his left cheekbone, nose and part of his upper lip; it left Bazarov's mouth in a permanent snarl. The man stood at around six feet tall, and was quite easily one of the strongest-looking men Hawke had ever met.

Bazarov's green eyes fixed on Hawke's. "What's this about?" He asked quietly, the Russian accent unmistakeable.

"I can't tell you yet. These orders come from the Boss. We need two more men, preferably a technician and a sniper." Hawke replied, disliking the way Bazarov's eyes narrowed at his refusal to divulge information. "You're with me now."

Bazarov frowned, but nodded and stayed quiet. Hawke sighed and walked in the direction of the shooting ranges. As the sound of gunfire and shouting became louder in his ears Hawke turned towards some stairs marked with a sign that read _LONG RANGE_.

"This is the place." Hawke said quietly.

They ascended the stairs and entered the observation room. In front of the reinforced glass window, four soldiers were laying prone, sniper rifles aimed down range. Looking up at the lights that signalled it was safe to shoot, and seeing that they were red, Hawke smiled to himself.

_Just in time._

Within a few seconds, the sound of rifle shots echoed through the safety glass of the viewing room, loud even through the thick walls. Hawke watched each Sniper's stance and movements and using a pair of binoculars looked down range to the targets, judging each man's average accuracy. In his time in the US Army, Hawke had had to train recruits, and knew what to look for.

He paused when he noticed the man on the end had barely fired any shots, where instead the other three were relaxing, rising to crouches and waiting. The last man, as Hawke checked the register, turned out to be a Venezuelan man by the name of David Medina. As Hawke watched, the Medina carefully adjusted his sights, slowly pulling back the bolt on his rifle, the shell ejecting and landing on the floor, the noise loud in the silent room. Medina seemed to relax; Hawke could clearly see the tension disappear from the man's shoulders, before he placed his finger on the trigger.

A single loud shot rang out in the range.

_Bullseye._

Medina raised his eye from the scope and smiled a small smile. Standing up, he turned to see Hawke and Bazarov standing in the viewing room. He looked at Hawke questioningly, before walking over to the door as the other snipers began to chatter and pack up their guns.

"Good shooting Medina." Hawke said. Medina, to Hawke's surprise, eyed the two suspiciously, sizing them up before nodding, the movement itself tiny and almost imperceptible.

_Is he even interested?_

"I've got a job for you, Medina. Something big." Hawke said, all the while ignoring the look Bazarov gave him. Medina stared at Hawke for a few seconds, before simply saying "Sir", and continuing to pack up his rifle. As Hawke and Bazarov left the room, Medina fell in silently behind them.

The trio now made the journey to the research department, where Hawke had already decided who the last member was. The wind was now a gale as the three men walked quickly across the surface of the rig, the dark clouds above drowning the moonlight and hanging threateningly above. Upon entering the research department, Hawke moved briskly to the communications wing – here MSF's newest prototype communications and recon technology would be developed and tested by the research team.

Walking over to the testing rooms, a scientist stopped them.

"Good to see you, Hawke. She's in room three." Hawke nodded to the man and turned around, telling the other two to stay where they were until he returned. Walking on to room three, he saw in the door's window a woman sat at the metal table, her MSF jacket replaced by a white vest top, allowing him to see numerous tattoos and scars across her arms and shoulders. Hawke walked in, knowing that the woman was too preoccupied with the radio set in front of her to care about the intrusion.

"Evelyn." Hawke said quietly, as the woman stopped and turned to face him.

Evelyn Jackson was an American woman, one of the only ones on the base who knew Hawke since his days in the Army. They had been involved back in the late 1960s, but their relationship ended, despite Evelyn's best efforts, because when Hawke returned from his three-year disappearance in the start of 1974 he was different, less attached. He could no longer engage with people socially like he used to. Hawke tried to banish the memories from his mind, but the look on Jackson's face when he last talked to her kept popping into his thoughts.

The woman turned, her face twisting into a suspicious frown.

_Oh, boy._

"What do you want, George?" She asked bluntly, the threat in her tone worsened by the large pair of metal pliers she held in her hand.

"A mission," Hawke said, choosing to ignore Jackson's confrontation. "The briefing is in a little while."

The woman looked at him, her eyes guarding her thoughts, as if he could not be trusted to tell the truth.

"I need a technician, Jackson." Hawke said, the woman frowning more at his use of her second name. "You don't have to like it, but Big Boss needs a team and he told me to put one together. I need your cooperation because like it or not, you are coming with us."

Yet, at the mention of Big Boss, she appeared to soften slightly and nodded. She stood and followed Hawke out, where he saw Bazarov and Medina talking comfortably.

_At least they're getting on. But I don't have a choice here, Evelyn is the best there is._

"Follow me." Hawke said, not letting slip his frustration with Jackson. The team was now assembled, and the four jogged over the surface of the rig, rain pelting from the sky above and soaking them in seconds, and before long they stood in the same smoky meeting room in Big Boss' office that Hawke had stood only a few hours before, the Caribbean sunrise just visible on the horizon.

Big Boss turned away from the window, his bandana flicking slightly. He looked over the three other members of Hawke's team, his one eye piercing in its gaze.

Lighting another cigar, he looked again at the four soldiers stood in front of him.

"All right, at ease. Now..."


	5. The Mission

**DISCLAIMER**

**Hi all, sorry again for the delay and the pitifully short Chapter, I am working away on the next one, where things begin to get moving. As always, comment or review freely, just try and be constructive in any criticism that I might make this better.**

**Thanks,**

**MrStagg**

Big Boss gestured to the projection on the wall behind him, the grainy image of two men barely discernible. One man was mostly hidden by a passing truck, but the other man was clearly visible, receiving a briefcase from the first man on the Hong Kong street. Rain poured down the window, obscuring the view of the base outside, every so often the blurry rigs outside would be lit up from above as lightning struck, followed immediately by the rumble of thunder.

"This photograph was taken a few hours before the robbery by an intelligence operative with MI6," he growled, "but the briefcase is the important part of this photo. Inside that case was a document which held a mathematical algorithm, this one responsible for the random generation of Chinese nuclear missile launch codes." He stared at the team in front of him.

"Oh my God..." Jackson muttered.

Big Boss looked over to her, a glint in his eye. "With this document, the owner could generate valid codes for the entire Chinese nuclear arsenal. Even worse for the rest of the world though is that the Chinese aren't onto the fact this document has been copied, so they haven't changed the algorithm."

"We know the man that stole this case from the exchange three weeks ago as Colonel Angúo Song," Miller said from across the room, changing the projection over to an image of a Chinese man in his late 30s in an army uniform. "He has separated from the People's Liberation Army due to his dissatisfaction with the Mao's 'Cultural Revolution' back in 1971 and the political and social instability the in-fighting left in its place."

Big Boss nodded to Miller. "The Chinese can't kill him openly as it would embarrass them internationally – one of their most qualified Army officials has effectively rebelled, taking a sizable force with him, and he has set up his own fortress on an island in the South China Sea." The projection changed to show an aerial shot of an island, covered in forest, with several small mountains running across it.

Big Boss pointed to the image. "This island has no name, but the locals call it 'Luòmò.' It is under Song's control, and make no mistake; Song is a savage and brutal enemy. If you are detected, he will do his best to kill every single one of you." Big Boss looked over the team once more.

"The mission," he said, "is to find that case, secure the documents, kill Song and return to the British contact in Hong Kong. Dismissed."

The team got up to leave after a quick salute, and Hawke meant to follow, but Miller told him to wait. Hawke turned back to Big Boss, confused. Thunder rumbled overhead.

Big Boss looked intently at Hawke, making him feel unnerved. "Hawke, there's something else. Our own intelligence reports that Song has been active over the past months, he's working on something..."

**Elsewhere...**

Jackson, Bazarov and Medina ran out across the rig, rain and wind lashing them as lightning flashed in the sky. They returned to the barracks and began to pack their gear, the three remaining relatively quiet as they prepared for the flight to Hong Kong.


	6. Insertion

**DISCLAIMER**

**Sorry again for the ludicrous waiting time before the update. I apologise deeply for it, but I found myself at a total loss as to where to take this story (again). I found myself running in circles about the plot and how to write this next chapter. I even considered discontinuing this, but even though some writing is a slog I found today that I enjoy it more than ever. I feel as if I have cleared a rut in this story and hit my stride. Expect a new chapter soon.**

**MrStagg**

The next day Hawke and the team, all of whom were dressed smartly in business clothes and carrying large cases stepped into the arrivals lounge at Hong Kong International Airport. After a painless journey through customs (the contact had arranged for their bags to "miss" screening) the four headed out of the terminal building and out into the Hong Kong evening. A black van waited for them, and the entered through the rear doors. No sooner than they were inside did the van speed off, the cloudy sky lit up by the city in the distance.

After about twenty minutes, the van slowed and turned off of the main road it had been following since it entered the Hong Kong Bay, pulling up outside of a cheap restaurant.

**Three hours later...**

The speedboat powered over the water, the island it approached even blacker than the sky above. Hawke turned to look at the team; water spraying into his face and making him squint. Medina, Bazarov and Jackson all sat in the passenger seats, each of them carrying a sealed waterproof backpack with their equipment in it. They too were getting quickly soaked from the thick ocean spray. To his right, piloting the boat stood the British liaison for the mission, a cheerful MI6 operative by the name of Blake. Despite the worsening weather, Blake was wearing the same cheap suit that he wore when the team first met him a few hours earlier.

Ahead of them the island grew larger, its black mass cutting out the light of the moon.

Suddenly, Blake cut the engine, swinging the boat side on, less than a hundred metres from the coastline. Turning, he nodded to Hawke.

"This is where you get off," he said loudly enough for the others to hear, his normally cheery voice saturated with seriousness. "Remember, your objective is to obtain the case and call us via radio when you have it, so we can extract you. If you're captured, the British government will deny your existence and in no way will we attempt to rescue you. Time is of the essence, as we don't know what Song is planning with those codes."

The team stood, shouldering their equipment and moving to the side of the boat. One by one, they slid over the side and into the water, their attempts to be quiet simply a precaution against being heard by any surveillance equipment, yet their dark fatigues made them near invisible anyway. Hawke was the last one on the boat; the others were already in the water. He turned to Blake, gave him a quick handshake and he too slid over the side. The freezing water bit into him instantly, making his muscles cramp momentarily as he slid slowly deeper.

Blake leaned over the side of the boat to them as they turned to swim to shore, his voice just audible over the waves.

"You're on your own from here on in!" He yelled as he turned back to the wheel and drove away, leaving the four soldiers to swim the remainder of the way.

After several exhausting minutes in the water, the four came out of the ocean on one of the island's shores, immediately taking cover by some large rocks as they regrouped. With the rushing sound of the waves in the background, Hawke turned to the others, water dripping from his hair.

"Put on the masks. We need our eyes clear."

Almost in a synchronised movement each member of the team reached to a pouch on their combat belt, taking out a tight black balaclava with armour plates on the sides of the jaw. Pulling them on, each person's hair was no longer in their face and they could see more clearly. Hawke placed his large bag on the sand and opened it, taking out his Mk.22 tranquilizer pistol, a combat knife and a case containing an M16 rifle that was disassembled into sections. Slotting each piece together with a satisfying snap, Hawke adjusted the sights and fitted a suppressor. Holstering his pistol, he turned back to the team.

Bazarov was loading his own weapon, a Russian-made PKM support machine gun, feeding the belt of bullets through the chamber from the 100-round box that it carried.

_He'd better not fire that thing. We could do without the noise at the moment._

Hawke also noticed the prototype remote charges the R&D team had developed – an expansion on the old C3 plastic explosive, they dubbed it "C4". More powerful and safer to carry, C4 could demolish most normal structures with ease. Bazarov also placed some land mines into his backpack. Medina was already calibrating the sights on his sniper rifle, having put the large weapon together in record time after their arrival. In about a minute, he was looking up the beach through his scope.

Looking over at Jackson, Hawke paused a moment, remembering his time with her. As she loaded her submachine gun and checked her long-range radio pack, she looked just as he'd remembered, before his trial. Before _that._

Shaking his head a moment, Hawke suggested to the others that they communicate by short-range radio, that way they could not be heard as easily. The others nodded, touching the earpieces they wore under their balaclavas. Moving into a walking crouch, Hawke aimed his rifle up into the thick trees at the top of the beach as the others followed him in a spread, each watching the surrounding rocks and their flanks.

Thunder rumbled overhead.

_Hold up._

As the four moved through the jungle, Hawke held up his hand, stopping the group. The sounds of the jungle were all around yet Hawke could hear a whisper of something else on the breeze.

_Vehicles._

Hawke moved up again, but much more slowly, his weapon loaded and trained in front of him. The tension began to mount as the seconds passed, the sound of vehicles much louder now, and suddenly he saw a glimpse of light in the trees ahead. Hawke pressed his microphone.

[Spread out, vehicles ahead. Watch your sides, we have contact.]

The others murmured their assent and slowly the group moved again, the jungle floor rustling slowly as they made their way through it towards the now-visible road. Thunder rumbled again, closer this time and drowning out the noises up ahead for a moment. Now a new sound could be heard from in front of them, that of voices.

[They have sentries ahead. It looks like we are more to the South than where we need to be, let's turn and head along the roadside to a clear area before we move deeper.]

The group turned left, heading parallel to the road yet a good forty metres away, using the dark green of their fatigues to hide them in the dark jungle. The pace continued for another ten minutes as Hawke thought over the assignment the Boss had given him.

_No-one else knows yet, but its best it stays that way. We need to stay focused._

However, doubts about what Big Boss had told him crept unwontedly into his head. Hawke thought back to those events two days ago, and the fact that Song was working on a new kind of weapon, one that could change the balance of the Cold War, like Peace Walker before it. How he was going to destroy it, Hawke had no idea.

Jackson's voice came over the radio suddenly, snapping Hawke out of his thoughts and returning his focus. It had started to rain lightly through the trees as thunder rumbled almost directly overhead, the clouds stifling any light from above.

[Bridge ahead, we should go under.]

Hawke agreed and once again raising his weapon, they team moved through the undergrowth before they could see a small bridge going over a stream up ahead. The ground fell away steeply either side of the road, and the night cast even more shadows into those lower areas. Coming together into single file, the four moved quietly under the bridge, before stopping at the exit of the far side. The wooden bridge above them rumbled and creaked as a jeep drove over the top, dislodging mud onto the soldiers' clothes. Pressing himself up against the mud that piled up under the bridge, Hawke aimed his weapon around the corner, and up along the side where the ground rose to meet the road again. Motioning with his hand, the team moved straight out from under the bridge and further across into the trees.

As the other three took up positions in the tree line, Hawke was about to move when Medina called via radio.

[Wait, someone's coming! Hide!]

Jackson also responded.

[We can't take him out, he might be missed!]

Hawke looked around, unable to see anywhere to hide before he heard the sound of footsteps on the ground, heading down from the road and towards the small stream. Seeing no other option, Hawke lay down uncomfortably in the cold water, turning his head to the side and lying completely still, rocks digging into him uncomfortably as water ran past his near entirely submerged body.

_If I don't move, the shadows from the bridge should hide me._

The footsteps belonged to a sentry, a tall man carrying an AK-47 who walked to the river and pulled down his fly, the zipping sound cutting through the ambience of nature like a knife.

_Gross._

The man started to relieve himself in the stream, the slightly warmer water running past Hawke's face as he tried his best not to splutter. After several agonising seconds, the guard zipped back up and turned to walk away at a call from his partner when Hawke accidentally inhaled some water, and despite his best efforts, choked slightly. Hawke froze up as the soldier instantly turned around, his weapon raised and eyes searching for the sound as the partner's shout went unanswered.

Hawke's heart thumped in his chest as the guard drew closer, his combat boots sloshing in the water. He was soon mere centimetres away from Hawke, who was sure he would be discovered lying in the stream when the man's partner called out again, more agitatedly this time. The other turned over his shoulder and called a response and slowly turned, the tense seconds passing like minutes.

Soon enough, though, the man had left, and as his footsteps faded away Hawke breathed a small sigh of relief before climbing out of the river, making a mental note to wash his fatigues thoroughly at the next chance he got. Moving quickly over to the trees, he ignored the humoured look Jackson gave him and pressed on into the jungle, the sound of activity quickly dying away as the jungle surrounded them. Hawke turned to Jackson.

[Get on the radio and get a message to HQ. We're in.]


	7. Teamwork

**DISCLAIMER**

**I'm back! Sort of. I apologise deeply for the delay, but work on this was slowed before I could finish and then I have spent the last three weeks at university for the first time, so getting down and writing this up has been a challenge. I think I will stop setting dates for release as I never keep to them anyway, suffice to say I will endeavour to produce the next chapter quickly. On another note, you people all been keeping up on MGSV? The recent demos at TGS and stuff helped inspire me to keep writing, and also helped me plan out the sneaking this chapter. If you haven't already, get on YouTube and have a look!**

**MrStagg**

The four moved like shadows through the increasingly dense jungle, quiet and invisible. After several minutes the noise of insects and rustling foliage began to be drowned out by activity, far more than that of the road. Signalling for the group to slow, Hawke took out a pair of binoculars as they all crouched lower and walked again, approaching a small hill.

The team neared the top of the slope, the journey from the base (now a good thirty metres behind them) having taken several minutes due to the soft and slippery ground. Needless to say, by the time the four reached the top, panting, they were all thoroughly muddy and wet. As Bazarov cursed under his breath, Hawke knelt into a crawl, and approached the edge, which on this side was a sheer drop. Beneath him stood a small outpost, lit by floodlights that were linked to generators. Chinese soldiers walked around the camp, some patrolling with weapons on them, others merely socialising or performing routine tasks.

_They obviously aren't expecting anything to go wrong tonight. They'll find out their mistake soon enough._

Hawke crawled back to the tree line, the moonlight glinting off of the lenses of his binoculars for a few moments before he was once again under the cover of shadows. He motioned for the others to come close, and they moved over to him quickly.

"Alright, the camp ahead of us is busy, but it only looks like it can hold thirty or so soldiers. We need to get to the far side." Hawke remembered the satellite imagery he was shown back at Mother Base. "The Colonel's main base should be a couple of miles inland from where we are, and I don't want an enemy camp blocking our way out of the area if things go wrong."

He cast a glance to the others in the group, the combination of their camouflage paint and the darkness making it hard to distinguish between their faces and the jungle behind them. As his eyes flicked over theirs, each one nodded.

"Medina, you are on duty for the initial strike. You take out the sentries in the towers and outer perimeter, giving us a way in, before providing overwatch for us. Do it quietly." Hawke said, as Medina nodded and crawled out onto the exposed top of the hill again, pulling out his sniper rifle and calmly setting up the bipod and calibrating his scope.

Medina's voice crackled over the radio.

[In position, just say the word.]

Hawke looked at Jackson, her eyes giving none of her thoughts away.

_She's focused, good._

"Jackson, you are to take out the generators, work carefully and do not engage unless you have a choice. Then, I want you to sweep and clear the huts on the South side." She nodded in acknowledgement before disappearing off into the jungle.

Hawke turned lastly to Bazarov. "You and me are going in on the North side, down the other side of the hill and clearing the majority of the barracks. You peel off after that and sweep for Intel; I will take the commander myself."

The two raised their weapons, heading back out into the moonlight and after two minutes or so they were at the perimeter wall, a sturdy work of wood and bamboo. Bazarov raised his silenced pistol, a Colt M1911, and nodded to Hawke. Turning to look up to the top of the hill, Hawke could see the barrel of Medina's rifle poking out from above some small rocks. He pressed his hand to his radio.

[Move in. Medina, do it.]

Hawke and Bazarov pushed through a weak point in the wall, the bamboo caving easily before turning to the right, the majority of the camp lying ahead of them. At the same time, Hawke noticed the floodlights on the far side of the base go out.

_Good job, Evelyn,_ He thought.

Looking up towards one of the guard towers, Hawke saw the occupying sentry jerk and slump as a sniper rifle bullet punched through his head, preventing even a whisper from him as he fell to the floor. He and Bazarov pressed on, moving in the darkened lanes between the camp buildings, listening for activity. Around them on the ground lay the bodies of most of the sentries, already dispatched by Medina as they moved closer to their destination.

As the main command housing came into view, a large radio mast mounted on the roof, they stopped and crouched behind some barrels.

"Bazarov, you go back, start neutralising the sleeping soldiers." Hawke said as Bazarov shot him a look of genuine surprise.

"Do you mean non-lethally?" He asked quietly.

"No. Use a knife and keep it quiet." Hawke said, staring unflinchingly into the other man's eyes.

Bazarov nodded and walked back the way they had come, disappearing into the nearest barrack building in a flash. Hawke checked his gun, making sure there were rounds loaded, before running across the open ground before the HQ. In seconds, he was under the shade of the doorway, ear pressed to the edge of the door where it met the wall, listening for any movement inside.

He could hear talking, but it was muffled, probably not in the entrance room. Hawke stepped back, and slowly reached for the handle, his fingers twitching slightly as they drew closer to it. His hand reached the handle, and he began to apply pressure.

_5, 4, 3, 2, 1._

Hawke pushed the door, hard. As it opened fully he was already inside, checking for sentries as he drew to a set of double doors in the darkened main room, the voices clear on the other side, speaking rapid Chinese.

Hawke peeped through the keyhole, and saw a sparse office with a Chinese flag pinned to the wall, and sat at the simple metal table were two men, one wearing the insignia for a Major. They were heavily engrossed in their conversation; evidently the events occurring outside hadn't drawn their attention. Hawke raised his handgun to shooting height, and placed his hand on the door handle.

He burst through the door as the Major looked up in surprise, the second man turning on the spot, blank shock on his face, just before Hawke shot him in the head. The Major drew his own sidearm and was in the process of raising it when Hawke closed the distance, wrapping one hand around the gun as he leapt to the outer side of the man's arm, his other hand going for the Major's throat. In seconds, Hawke had knocked the man unconscious, taking the gun from his hand and unloading it onto the table. He picked up the Major's form and sat him in one of the chairs at the desk, tying him down with some of the rope he carried with him in a pouch.

_Fast, brutal, quiet._

Turning to the desk, stepping back over the other man's corpse, the blood from the exit wound spreading fast across the concrete floor. Hawke saw papers and documents strewn across the table's surface, among them, a photograph caught his eye.

It was blurry, but it showed without doubt the new weapon that Song was working on existed, and was there on the island. It stood as tall as a small building, with four massive legs, metal plates running the length of its body, easily big and well armed enough to stop a battalion of tanks.

_Good God, how am I going to destroy this thing?_

Hawke remembered the reconnaissance part of his mission, and loaded the files into a weatherproof folder he carried on him.

_The others don't need to know yet._

Hawke pressed his earpiece.

[Status?]

[Clear.]

[Clear.]

[Clear.]

[Good. Rendezvous in the HQ. We have a Major to question.]


	8. Interrogation

**DISCLAIMER**

**Hello again, here's the next chapter in the story, though be warned: GRAPHIC VIOLENT CONTENT IS INCLUDED IN THIS CHAPTER. You don't have to read it if you don't want to. Otherwise, enjoy (after a fashion!). Also, remember that I love feedback from my audience, reviews, criticisms and other views on my work are always helpful.**

**MrStagg**

Hawke sat down in front of the Major, the team members waiting outside, having moved all the furniture to the sides of the room, leaving only the two metal chairs in the centre. The noise stirred the man, and he raised his head slowly, blinking through his disorientation.

_Wait for it._

Hawke looked about the room. The team were waiting outside, leaving just him and the Major, with Medina watching the now silent base through the main doors.

_Wait for it..._

The Major's vision was finally clearing, his eyes moving more quickly now as the room came into focus. Hawke stood up quietly, and as the man began to turn his head to look wildly around the room, Hawke threw a solid punch right the Major's jaw.

The man grunted with the impact, the force knocking his head to the side and causing a rush of adrenaline into his system. He sought to stand and retaliate but found immediately that he was restrained. Rage and confusion were playing across his features for several seconds before he understood he was in interrogation, after which his face became still.

Hawke sat back down again, looking the man in the eye. He tried to greet the man sat across from him.

_Damn, my Chinese is rusty._

Hawke smiled to himself, before trying again, this time the language flowing more eloquently and clearly.

"Where is Colonel Song? Where is his base? Where are the missile codes?" Hawke asked.

The other man held Hawke's gaze, and stayed silent. Hawke sighed with mock boredom, and stood up.

WHACK. The man grunted again, spitting onto the floor beside him, his skin starting to go red already.

"Where?" Hawke asked again, more forcefully as he moved closer to the man.

The Major straightened up as Hawke closed, then spat in his face. Hawke recoiled and lashed out.

WHACK. THUMP. Hawke went for the body now as well, delivering a square hit to the man's midriff, with the sturdy metal chair preventing the dispersion of any force from the punch.

"Where?!"

Silence.

Hawke delivered several more attacks to the man's face and body. On one punch the Major cried out involuntarily.

_Must have been a rib._

"WHERE?!" Hawke roared, and was once again met with a blank stare. Shaking with anger and adrenaline, he kicked up at the man's jaw, the force of it making the man bite on his own tongue, screaming for a second as the chair fell backwards to the floor with a crash.

The initial impact crushed the Major's fingers, as they were tied behind the seat, further making the man yell through gritted teeth as blood dribbled from his mouth in steady streams. Hawke pressed on, raising a foot above the man and bringing it down, hard. The hit was to the man's lower chest, winding him and making the Major cough blood into the air before it spattered back down onto his face.

_You're pushing him too hard._

Hawke leaned down to the man, looking into his eyes coldly, and asked again, calmly.

"Where is Colonel Song? Where is his base? Where are the missile codes?"

The man once again stayed resolutely silent, despite the pain.

_He's a tough nut._

Hawke looked to the knife he carried in a holster on his chest, deliberately slowly. He saw the other man follow his gaze, his eyes flickering madly in fear. Hawke reached to the holster and pulled the combat knife out, holding it in his hand, the weight in his hand familiar to him.

Looking back to the man, whose gaze remained fixed on the deadly point, Hawke readied the knife.

"Where?" He asked slowly, but his voice giving away some of the anger he felt.

The man remained completely silent, so Hawke brought the knife down into the man's arm, right through the muscle. The Major writhed and screamed as the blade cut through part of his bicep, blood immediately running from the wound. Hawke, with the knife still embedded in the man's arm, asked again. And again all he received was silence, punctuated by rapid breathing as the man struggled with the pain.

Hawke twisted the knife. More blood, deep red, spurted from the wound as it punctured vessels around the muscle. More screaming and bucking from the Major, yet Hawke held him down.

Changing targets to the other arm, Hawke asked again. And again he brought the knife down, to the sound of screams being dulled out in his ears, to the struggles growing more desperate from the man on the floor beneath him.

Twist. Slice. Stab. Hawke's hearing was going numb, replaced by a ringing in his ears, the man beneath him writhing wildly and blood frothing at his mouth as he struggled, Hawke's brain barely processing the image.

"Sir? Sir!" He heard a voice calling out as someone grabbed his shoulder, preventing him from bringing down the knife again, pulling him off of the form beneath him. Suddenly, everything came into focus, the sound of screams piercing the numbness like a gunshot in the night, the sight of the blood, pooling around the Major who was still rolling around as much as the restraints allowed him to permeating his vision, the knife in his hands dripping red.

Bazarov shook him. "He's going into shock!" He shouted in Hawke's face as he pushed him to the side of the room, Hawke crashing into some of the furniture at the side of the room, the impact barely registering.

_What have I done?_

Hawke could only stand to the side as Jackson and Bazarov put pressure on the wounds, trying to hold the Major down and stop the blood flow, before a gunshot rang out across the room. Everyone turned, and saw Medina standing, pistol smoking in hand as the shell clattered to the floor, the quiet noise dominating the silence in the room. He shot a glance to Hawke for just a moment, and in that moment Hawke knew what Medina thought.

_You pushed him too hard._

Medina holstered his pistol and left the room, as if nothing had happened. Jackson and Bazarov stood up from the Major's body, blood soaking slowly into their fatigues. Hawke was shaking, anger pulsing through his veins, though he didn't know why.

_You lost control._

Hawke saw Jackson walking toward him, rage on her face as she glared at him, her eyes telling him everything she could have said. Hawke looked away, at his hands, noticing how they trembled. Jackson and Bazarov left the room, leaving only Hawke and the body of the Major, who was as silent a few minutes ago as he was, dead on the floor, now.

_Pull it together. You still have a job to do._

Hawke wiped the knife down on the Major's handkerchief, plucked dextrously from the dead man's pocket before holstering the blade again. Picking up his gun, that lay propped against the wall by the door he left into the main entrance hall. It was raining outside, the water cascading down and soaking everything not under cover, the ground outside the building quickly turning into a mud pool, glistening with water as yet more rain continued to fall. The sound was loud, even from inside the building.

Ignoring the glare Jackson gave him, he strode towards the front door.

"We need to find the location of that base." He said, before moving out into the rain, the other three following quickly.


End file.
